


The Labors of Sherlock Holmes

by WinterRose16



Series: Something Good [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ACD Canon References, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Case Fic, Discworld References, Harm to Animals, Multi, Murder, Mystery, Pre-Slash, Story: The Adventure of the Lion's Mane, The Trousers of Time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-07
Updated: 2015-01-15
Packaged: 2018-02-28 12:57:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2733398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WinterRose16/pseuds/WinterRose16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Pool, Sherlock finds himself busier than ever with an influx of new cases, but the greatest mystery of all may lie in his own brain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own anything that you recognize. The original stories and characters by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle are in the public domain, and the universe of the BBC’s _Sherlock ___is owned by Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss. The transcript from “The Great Game” comes from Ariane DeVere’s wonderful website. It’s my attempt at filling in the gaps of the show and starting off my own Sherlock universe. These stories come in two flavors: canon-compliant, and AU. The AU versions are being published first, because they’re created by the more persistent Plot Bunny gnawing on my head. The Plot Bunny for the canon-compliant version is merely nibbling at my toes right now. This works on the Trousers of Time theory by Sir Terry Pratchett: what if something changes during the show so that my fics run in parallel before going off the rails? Sherlock sees John in a new light at the pool, and it eventually leads to everything changing.
> 
>  
> 
> I also don’t own Benedict Cumberbatch or Martin Freeman; Sophie Hunter and Amanda Abbington have already called dibs, you know. :)

Sherlock Holmes stared out of the window of a London cab, mind and body jittery with excess energy. He had finally come face-to-face with Moriarty and narrowly escaped less than an hour prior, and now he was running over the events of the meeting at the Starrett Aquatic Centre. Moriarty had to be formulating a new plan, and maybe there were enough clues in their interaction to give Sherlock an advantage. He doubted it, however. If Moriarty was able to fool him so completely at Bart's, everything Sherlock had noticed about him would have to be taken with a very large grain of salt.

He suppressed his grin at the thought, but it faded as he remembered the lead-up.

_“Sherlock, run!”_

John had been more than ready to take Moriarty with him. Sherlock had never thought anyone would do such a thing for him. Mycroft would have, but out of obligation and his misguided focus on “family duty.” John had no reason to do that, just like he had no reason to shoot Jeff Hope.

_“That thing you offered to do—that, that was…good.”_

John’s adrenaline rush had already worn off and he was dozing, his head against the cab window. He snored a little, and was clearly exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes and his hand and eyelids didn’t have the telltale twitching that showed he was having a dream or nightmare, unusual for a man who had just been kidnapped and nearly met his own demise—but then, there wasn’t much usual about John Watson at all. Sherlock looked out his window and estimated that they were ten minutes away from Baker Street.

The streetlights passed over John’s sleeping face and Sherlock was surprised that the lines around his eyes and mouth seemed less defined, making him look younger. He looked a little scruffy, with a day’s worth of stubble, and his mouth was slightly open. The dreadful cardigan and the awful checked shirt made him look like a young man who raided his grandfather’s closet because he had no other option.

It wasn’t like John to fall asleep right after a case; usually he was excited and giddy, like he’d downed a gallon of espresso. That was precisely how Sherlock felt now. He tried to keep his feet still, lest he wake John with the noise, and he couldn’t stop wringing his hands, which felt sweaty inside of his leather gloves. His stomach felt like it had a large bird trapped inside, and that the bird was beating its enormous wings as fast and frantically as it could, churning the stomach acid. His heart thudded away in his chest, and his breathing was rapid. Obviously it was his body’s response to the stress at the pool. Now that they were both out of danger, Sherlock’s body needed to burn off the excess adrenaline somehow, and he was clearly in the later stages of his “fight or flight” response. It was surprising that John wasn’t reacting the same way. Perhaps it was due to his age, or his time in Afghanistan, or maybe it was genetic. Further research would have to be required.

The cab pulled up outside of 221B Baker Street and Sherlock soundlessly shushed the cabbie ( _"Part-time, daughter of Australian immigrants, wants to be a poet, supporting her parents with her earnings, helping her younger siblings attend university someday"_ ) with a finger to his lips before handing over the proper amount of cash, plus a twenty-percent tip. He felt oddly hesitant about waking John, dismissed the thought, and hissed, “John?”

There was no response.

“John?” he tried again, a little louder.

“Mm?” John raised his head, his cheek a little pink where he had rested it against the cold window. “Sherlock?” His response time was a little slower than normal—John was typically a very light sleeper, a habit born of medical school and the army. He must _really_ have been exhausted if he still blinked sleep out of his eyes twenty seconds after waking.

Sherlock ignored the slight arrhythmia in his chest at the sight of his sleep-rumpled flatmate. “We’re home.”

“Oh. So we are.” He reached for his wallet, but Sherlock stopped him.

“I already paid, come on.”

“You, seriously?”

“Yes, come on. You can’t sleep in the cab all night.”

John yawned and followed Sherlock out of the cab and up the stairs to the flat. He didn’t stop to go in, but continued up to his own bedroom on the second floor. “I’m bloody knackered, Sherlock. See you in the morning. Night.”

It was taking an unusually long amount of time to burn off the adrenaline, Sherlock mused over leftover Thai food. He ate mechanically, each bite making his stomach roil, until he gave up about halfway through the leftover pad see yew and shoved it back in the fridge before going to the bathroom and stripping down to his skin, turning the shower on. The hot water was almost gone by the time Sherlock’s body reasserted itself for the usual post-case crash. The adrenaline had finally gone, a full forty-five minutes later than usual, and his stomach had finally settled. His eyelids felt heavy, and he barely remembered to dry off before crawling under the covers, not even bothering to put on pajamas. He curled up around one of his thick pillows and was asleep in less than thirty seconds.


	2. Case One: The Lion in the Aquarium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day after the Pool, Sherlock gets involved in another case--but what about John?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Still belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss, PBS, and the BBC. Not me. The name for the fic and the ideas for some of the cases are stolen from Greek Mythology’s Twelve Labors of Hercules, and Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot was the first to have cases inspired by them. I also don’t own John Finnemore’s Souvenir Program; I just stole one of the jokes.
> 
> Well, I could start quoting from “Empty Hearse” at this point, but, since the Trousers of Time are so important, I’m going to instead say that I aten’t dead.
> 
> The casefic here is (very loosely) inspired by ACD’s story: “The Adventure of the Lion’s Mane,” which is not yet in the public domain in the United States. I chose it because it’s one of the few ACD stories that’s narrated by Holmes instead of Watson.
> 
> John’s Blog is enormously helpful when it comes to providing dates and events, and this is based on extrapolation from that, plus my own little spin on things, as you will shortly see. Tags will be added as I go along. 
> 
> Also, if anyone would be willing to be a Beta/editor/Brit-picker regarding vocab, culture, and geography, that would be wonderful. Currently the closest thing to a Brit-picker I have is the glossary in the back of _Angus, Thongs, and Full-Frontal Snogging ___and I need to return that to the library soon. This is my first fanfic, so you are welcome to be as harsh as you like.

Sherlock awoke to the smell of kippers, bacon, and strong tea. Obviously, John was cooking a very late breakfast—lunch, rather, given the angle of the sliver of sunlight that came through the break in the old Blitz blackout curtains. He got up, yawned, and pulled on a pair of cotton pajamas and his tartan dressing gown before going into the kitchen.

John stood at the hob, fully dressed in a jumper, jeans, and socks, and Sherlock remembered that the windows still hadn’t been replaced. His hair had barely been combed, the cowlick making him look like a blond hedgehog, and he turned to face Sherlock with a smile. “Oh, good, you’re up. Hungry?”

“Ravenous.” Sherlock couldn’t help but smile back. There was just something pleasing about the image in front of him, particularly with the sunlight coming in from the window behind him.

“Pity that none of this is for you, then.”

“What?” Sherlock studied John closely and then rolled his eyes. “You’re trying to play a very weak practical joke on me.”

“Well, yeah, it’s April Fool’s Day, I’ve still got fifteen minutes to pull one over on you.” John indicated the clock on the oven; it was 11:45 AM. “April Fool. Toast or soldiers?”

“Soldiers.”

“Honey, jam, or marmalade?”

“Raspberry honey. It’s in the jar with the magenta label.”

“Kippers or bacon?”

“Both.”

“Tea?”

“Love some.” Sherlock caught the look on John’s face and added, “Please.”

Sherlock didn’t just eat breakfast, he ate seconds. As usual, whenever he came off a case, his body’s neglected physical needs made themselves known. He would eat voraciously, not caring what it was or where it came from or how expensive it was, only that it was well-prepared and delicious, whether it was cheap falafel from a street vendor or a five-course meal at The Landmark (he prided himself on the fact that he had built up a network of contacts in every sector of London life). He would sleep for anywhere from eight to sixteen hours, depending on the intensity of the case, and whether he slept or ate first depended on whether he was yawning or starving by the time the case had ended. Whichever happened, he then ended up taking a shower, two minutes of which were set aside for quick, efficient achievement of releasing his built-up sexual energy, and, when the hot water was gone, he would get out, shave, attend to his appearance, and then emerge from his bedroom with a yen to start the day. Sometimes he would grab a pencil, several sheets of empty music paper, and his violin, and compose, sometimes he would experiment with chemicals or body parts, and sometimes, though rarely, he would be demanding another case, bothering Lestrade, reading the newspapers, or trawling the waters of his Homeless Network.

Today was going to be a composing day, and the thought of finally finishing that little tune that had been cropping up off and on since January while John typed up his blog entry just a few feet away brought a smile to his face. He finished his second cup of tea and asked, “When are the windows getting replaced?”

“Four,” John answered, unconsciously licking his lips as he pecked at his laptop keyboard with his index fingers. The typing was rhythmic and proceeded at a slow, steady beat. His speed was improving a little, but his accuracy was still low, as evidenced by the occasional, “Bugger!” or “Damn!” that escaped him.

A breeze blew in around the cracks of the boarded up windows and Sherlock felt a little chilly, goose bumps breaking out along his arms and legs. He’d have to put his coat back on before he came back out to compose. Leaving his dishes on the table, he said, “I’m going to have a shower.”

“OK, and put your bloody dishes away first!”

 

John shook his head as Sherlock left. Really, right after a case, Sherlock seemed to regress into the world’s oldest teenager; he would eat anybody he came across out of house and home, he’d sleep for ages on end, he’d hog the bathroom, and he could have medaled in sulky petulant strops. John looked at the clock. It was eight minutes after noon, and therefore, April Fool’s Day was officially over and he could post his entry. He looked over it with a critical eye, trying to catch really embarrassing typos (Harry had teased him mercilessly and drunkenly the first time he’d sent a text from his new phone; bloody autocorrect had kicked in and he ended up saying “shag” instead of “shark”), found none, and posted it.

God, it was bloody cold in the living room. He didn’t want to spend his day upstairs in his room, they were all out of firewood, and he was in the mood to sit in a comfy chair and in front of a fire with a book in his hands and a mug of tea at his side. That meant that he was going to the library today.

He left a note for Sherlock on the table, made plans to be back by three-forty-five, and went out to Westminster Home Library on Marylebone Road.

 

Sherlock came out of the shower, fully dressed, complete with Belstaff Millford coat and shoes, with his violin case in one hand and a music stand in the other. He looked at the note and frowned. This was not what he wanted at all. There was no reason for John to leave like this.

There was a knock on the door and a little cry of, “Woo-hoo!” and Mrs. Hudson entered, wrapping her coat around her to ward off the April chill. “Hello, Sherlock.”

“Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock turned around and looked at her. _“Readjusted her hair, brief touch-up of makeup, steps coming up the stairs—client!”_ Out loud, he said, “Show them in, Mrs. Hudson.”

She came in and kissed his cheek. “Of course I will. Are you all right?”

“Yes, why wouldn’t I be?” Sherlock answered brusquely. “Do show them in.”

“It’s alright for you to come up,” she called. “Sorry about the cold.”

DI Lestrade entered, his heavy coat on. “Why the bloody hell didn’t you call us last night?!” he demanded. “I have to find out from John’s bloody blog about the fact that _he_ got kidnapped and _you_ almost sold out the nation!”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “There was nothing that could have been done. You would have found an empty pool and a bomb vest which, on closer examination, would have proved to be faked.”

“Where’s John?”

“Out, library. What’s the case?” Sherlock set the violin down back in the case and closed it.

“Nothing to do with Moriarty, thank God, but it’s bloody weird. The entire London Zoo’s had to close down because of it. Do you know why a lion would be drowning in the aquarium and why the jellyfish keeper would be dead in front of her tank?” Lestrade inquired.

Sherlock grinned. “I’ll meet you there.”

“Is John coming?”

“No, he’s not.” Sherlock’s face fell momentarily. If John didn’t have the decency to be home when there was a case on, he’d simply have to miss out. “I’ll take a cab.”

“Course you will.”

“I’ll take care of the glaziers, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson assured him. “Have fun!”

Sherlock smiled at her and followed Lestrade down the stairs, pulling his gloves out of his coat pocket.

 

After four years and ten months of being the world’s only consulting detective, Sherlock was used to seeing bizarre things in his chosen line of work, but a dead lion floating in the jellyfish tank was definitely one of the strangest. It was certainly more interesting than the dead woman on the floor in front of the tank, or Lestrade’s team crawling all over the scene. “When was this discovered?”

“About an hour ago, when the staff noticed that the security cameras suddenly went on the fritz,” Lestrade answered. “By the time they came back, the jellyfish keeper was dead and Simba here was sleeping with the fishes.”

“How do you know the Swahili word for ‘lion’?” Sherlock asked, kneeling down by the woman’s corpse.

Lestrade failed to restrain himself from rolling his eyes. “ _The Lion King_ , Sherlock, one of Disney’s biggest movies ever.”

“Dull.” Sherlock cast a quick eye over the woman ( _“Stabbed from behind, thin blade”_ ) and promptly turned to ascend the ladder to get a good look at the lion. Admittedly, his knowledge of the biology of African mammals was lacking, but even he knew that the dark mane indicated that it was male. “Who’s the keeper of the lions?”

“Freddy McPherson. He’s just coming ‘round from being doped up with something. Donovan’s with him.”

“We’re calling someone to do an autopsy on the lion,” Anderson called from his spot down on the floor.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the man’s stupidity and snapped, “It’s only an autopsy if the procedure is performed by another lion! Since it’s being done by a human on an animal, it’s a _necropsy_!”

“No one cares, Sherlock!” Lestrade snapped, rolling his eyes ( _“Late night, fought with his wife again, stayed up an additional hour to console his children”_ ). “Could you get down here and look at the human victim, please?”

Sherlock reluctantly obeyed. “Yes, Lestrade?”

“Right. Her name’s Anne Murdoch, according to her ID in her back pocket, and she’s the keeper of the jellyfish here. Went off for her lunch at noon, came here during the security blackout, and got stabbed right in the back. We’re trying to find the knife.”

Sherlock took another look and said aloud, “You’re not looking for a knife, but a fencing foil. The wound’s too thin for the average switchblade or penknife.”

“You’re taking the piss!” Anderson shouted.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and said, “Lestrade, if Anderson can’t say anything intelligent, then why—”

“How do you know it was a foil?” Lestrade interrupted.

“Because I used to fence at Harrow and Cambridge,” Sherlock answered. “All other sport was boring.”

“That explains _so_ much,” Anderson muttered. “Ponce.”

Lestrade’s radio crackled and Sally Donovan’s voice came over the speaker: “McPherson’s mostly lucid. He’s sitting up, sipping some water, and not puking.”

“Right, Sherlock’s got some questions for him,” Lestrade said.

“Oh, _no_ …!” she groaned.

One of the PCs, a young redhead, ( _“Name of O. MacDonald, brand-new to the job, judging by the way she avoids looking at the corpse”_ ) brought Lestrade a cup of coffee from the Zoo’s Starbucks and he gave her a nod and swigged it back. “MacDonald, take Sherlock to Donovan.”

“R-Right away, sir,” she said, her Edinburgh brogue thick and her voice high-pitched. She tried to nod at Sherlock but paled instead, and turned around on her heel and walked as fast as she could.

It was easy for him to follow her. He caught a glimpse of the charm bracelet around her wrist and, when she brought him to Donovan and the witness, he said, “Olivia, Lestrade needs you to keep Anderson from running amuck. I’m sure I can find my own way back.”

She gave a little jump when he mentioned her first name and scampered away, her expression a combination of fear and awe.

“Don’t scare the recruits, Freak,” Donovan scolded.

“I see Anderson’s currently spending nights with his wife, Sally,” Sherlock sat down in front of the witness. “You realize that sleeping with a married coworker would reflect worse on you than it would with most other members of the police, given the inherent sexism and racism still found in society.”

Donovan looked like she would have hit him had Lestrade not arrived at that very moment. “Break it up, you two!” he barked. “God, I swear my kids behave better than you lot sometimes. Sherlock, Donovan, have you started questioning, yet?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank God for the Rich Text button! Maybe there won't be formatting issues this time.
> 
> Again, I would love an editor/beta/Brit-picker. My only resources are Wellington Goose's wonderful Tumblr metas and Google maps. Would anyone care to point out exactly what I'm doing wrong? In detail? So that you don't have to wait a month for the next chapter? Thank you very much! Hopefully I'll see you soon!

**Author's Note:**

> Well, finally got this started! It's nowhere close to finished, and if anyone knows a good editor/Brit-picker/beta, let me know! As an American, I always appreciate Brit-picking, and if you can think of a better summary or series title, that would be awesome. I only use British spellings in-universe (Sherlock's Mind Palace, John's blog, written text, etc.), but I am eager to expand my UK vocab. Help with HTML would also rock, since it's kind of kicking my butt right now. I can't figure out how to get Sherlock's thoughts in italics yet.
> 
> I also like to toss in references to other Holmesian canons, adaptations, actors, and Big Name Fans. See how many you can spot over the course of the fic, tell me in the comments, and I'll have end credits when I've finally finished this monstrosity of a fic where I'll explain the references. Just for fun, we'll make it a scavenger hunt, and whoever catches them all gets a nod to their username in a member of the Homeless Network and/or (if there's more than one winner), minor bad guys.
> 
> Like it? Hate it? Let me know in the comments!


End file.
